In Favor of Lightning

Red House, Red Leaves

Red House, Red Leaves She said she dreamt of garbage blowing. A day that was raining leaves. Autumn. Trees at the peak of some color—gold, plum, sober. She was making an effort to feel better, saying it like the time of year could hear her, had been there itself, and reached with its barest look across the room, cutting like sun into the grains of wood, the part in her hair. There was only enough sorrow for now, where, before it was bigger, longer, more abstract, a sort of floating terror. I walked around and around in the alley that night with the noise of the leaves like props from her dream, and the smell of their rotting, like the air was escorting them sincerely back to their salt. 37 ...